


the only one whose broken heart still has broken parts (just wrapped in pretty paper)

by jencat



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Christmas Eve, Christmas Lights, F/M, Foggy Nelson & Karen Page Friendship, Honestly this is getting less christmassy the longer i keep writing, Or the lack thereof, all the christmas angst, and this dratted fic has not left me alone for a solid week, and this dratted fic has not left me alone for a solid year now???, apparently that's a thing now??, because apparently i can't get enough of these, hand-holding, inordinate amounts of scotch, it didn't work out so well for Frank let's be honest, karen being karen, karen page and dinah madani friendship, post s-1, pretty much, still worried about dinah madani getting shot in the head, vague allusions to karen's family being abusive, very brief mention of micro, where in the world in frank castle?, yet another kastle xmas fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-02-26 12:04:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13235376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat/pseuds/jencat
Summary: It's December twentieth, and Karen has a gaudy poinsettia sitting on a table by the window that could theoretically be visible from outside, and two sets of bookcases draped in fairy lights she honestly hasn't bothered to switch on for three days now.~aaaand we're done~





	1. Your Eyes Outshine The Town

**Author's Note:**

> Um. Ok. Apparently I need to stop listening to vaguely melancholy Christmas songs while reading kastle fic because.. this happened.  
> Title is from Kacey Musgrave's Christmas Always Makes Me Cry  
> (yep, country flavoured christmas angst, I went there)

It's December twentieth, and Karen has a gaudy poinsettia sitting on a table by the window that could _theoretically_ be visible from outside, and two sets of bookcases draped in fairy lights she honestly hasn't bothered to switch on for three days now. She can just about see them from where she's sitting in the dark, plastic glinting dully in the dim light of her laptop screen, because _hell_ if that doesn't sum the whole thing up perfectly. _Karen Page tries to do a normal thing like everybody else; Karen Page fucking fails miserably._

But there it is: Karen grew up in a house on fire in the middle of the Vermont woods, all the neighbors too far away to ever call the cops. She's never really had a clue what that kind of normality would even look like, and it's starting to feel like a child's fantasy these days: a normal life, with no occasion to flinch at sounds in the night, or entertain that nagging worry about the safety of every single goddamn person in her life.

There aren't that many people left in her life, all things considered.

She thinks all that, and glances at the gun on her nightstand again; moves words around for an article that's guaranteed to have Ellison simultaneously delighted and pissed at her for unsubstantiated allegations about dangerous people.

(It'll be another front page, odds on, once the last source confirms. It's very nearly the kind of dangerous that guarantees that.)

She _thinks_ Ellison has almost forgiven her for the whole Frank-Castle-not-being-dead thing.  She hasn't even remotely forgiven herself, for escalating a situation where that kind of escalation wasn't necessarily called for, but that's not important right now. It's not like she got much of a front page story out of it after the truly impressive CIA cover-up machine kicked into gear.

She didn't write about Homeland and cover-ups in the end.  Once she raked through the ashes of a dozen different witness accounts, spent a couple of sleepless nights with a pinboard and too much bad coffee, she'd ended up freezing and breathless in Central Park, standing in front of the police tape surrounding that fucking carousel.

The debris had been cleared away; there's a whole lot of bullshit about vandalism going round, but Karen has occasion to know bullet holes when she sees them. Bullet holes, and broken glass, and she's so strung out on caffeine and bad memories, she barely makes it to the nearest garbage can before she throws up.  

The front page ends up bland and diplomatic and someone else's problem. She went home with bile in her throat and started what Ellison jokingly liked to call a 'Karen special'. A page six op-ed, working through the part where yes, Frank Castle  _had_ apparently been alive all this time, but seriously, who the hell had even noticed? It's not like he had been rampaging through the city or anything recently... and, well, it did take a little more ingenuity to spin the whole hotel incident, but she thinks it works, all things considered. There's a certain advantage to the part where the Punisher brand has that simple morality to it: _why in hell would Frank Castle be supporting a bomber killing innocent people; that's never been his style._

And then towards the end, the lines that make her proud and vaguely nauseous all at the same time:

_Perhaps we should all take the time to remember the important thing here. And the important thing is not that The Punisher hasn't really been as dead as you've been told all this time._

_The important thing is that we have let the urban myth of yet another vigilante's reputation overshadow the real tragedy at the heart of this: the murders of Maria Castle, Lisa Castle, and Francis Castle Junior.  An innocent family out for a day in the park; a Marine's family celebrating home leave. You would have thanked them for their sacrifice if you met them; it's the decent thing to do. You've never seen seen their deaths correctly reported; never seen their lives given the weight they deserve, and that heartless lack of acknowledgment should matter to you more right now than being afraid of Frank Castle, because it says some truly terrifying things about the world we live in._

_Because there will always be people in this world who tell you to be afraid, and who will offer you something convenient to be afraid of. And you know, deep down, that that's when you need to be brave and start asking what they gain from your fear._

It wasn't the most elegantly written column she'd ever submitted, (it really couldn't be, after half a night spilling scotch with shaking hands), but it turned out all that adrenaline lent her words a kind of eloquent rage that was hard to fake. 

Ellison had greeted it with  _holy shit, Karen. Are you sure?_ She'd watched it hit the stands with her heart in her throat; bet everything she had that it was received in the spirit it was intended.

But then, she couldn't have stopped herself if she'd tried.

**

Still nothing.

**

The miniature rose bush gave up the ghost when the temperature dropped at the end of November; a freezing windowsill in a New York winter being a whole lot more than a decorative plant could survive. She dropped the shrivelled remains in the trash with a lump in her throat and bought the poinsettia on sale. It was all semantics at this point anyway.

**

Truth be told, she was kind of amazed when Foggy stepped up and invited her for Thanksgiving in the end. 

(She still feels kind of shitty about wholesale wrecking his Christmas Eve last year, having rocked up to his drinks party three hours after walking out of Matt's little confessional, half a bottle of scotch down and ready to go to war. She and Foggy both wound up crying in the kitchen and she woke up Christmas morning on his couch with the kind of hangover that makes her stomach turn even thinking about it now. They don't really talk about it again, even after everything that happened in the summer. What was there even to say?)

But after all that, a little thing like Karen nearly being blown up was enough to break the distracted grief their friendship had drifted into the last few months. Foggy called her, they almost get weepy again, and for once she felt like being the kind of person who accepts pity invites to other people's family Thanksgivings. She spent a fraught few hours eating his mom's excellent turkey and fielding Marci's lawyer-sharp interrogation about being kidnapped briefly by New York's latest homegrown terrorist (because Marci is spending the holiday with Foggy's family for the first time, and she's  _really very good_  at being a lawyer). And by some miracle of tact, nobody uttered Frank Castle's name once the entire time.

She almost wishes they had, because the not-talking-about-it is driving her to distraction.

It was sweet of Foggy to invite her, she appreciates that; it also left her wanting to climb the fucking walls by approximately 3pm. She's really not in any fit state for a Christmas day that involves anything more than her camping out on the sofa with takeout and some terrible films.

**

And there's _still nothing._

**

She finishes switching up a sentence midway through the article, and thinks it might be enough. The silence comes flooding back in once she stops focusing on the screen, and at the back of it is still that faint, faint ringing in her ears (also with the nearly getting blown up: repeated percussive trauma is the gift that keeps giving, apparently). She makes a grab for the portable radio sitting next to her .380, before the leftover tinnitus really gets its claws in, and _of course_  it's playing tinny Christmas music. To be fair, it's Springsteen informing her  _Santa Claus Is Coming to Town;_ it could be a lot worse.

She closes the laptop, turns the radio up just enough that it's probably pissing her closest neighbor off (should the notoriously insomniac Mrs Delaney still be awake at 2.37am too, Karen will be hearing about this in the morning) and flinches when her phone buzzes as well.

_Hey KP.. heard anything today??_

And... well, it's not Mrs Delaney.

As far as she can tell, Dinah Madani dug up her cell number from somewhere after the column ran; started texting her almost as soon as she'd completed preliminary neuro-rehab for getting shot in the goddamn head (as you do, apparently, when you're.. Dinah), and now Karen has a metric fucktonne of faintly awkward exchanges on her phone, mentioning no names but managing to convey that their mutual acquaintance somehow got a Hail Mary pass on... just about everything. She's still bemused by that part; the extent to which she gathers Dinah Madani went all out to _get_ that Hail Mary. That anyone who.. wasn't Karen would do that. She also gets the impression Madani, being Madani, is antsy, bored of being stuck at home for three months of rehab, and keeps asking Karen questions for the pure hell of having something to do. 

If Karen were reading between the lines, she'd say there was also some sharp, bright vein of fury underlying every question, shot through with a decent measure of grief and cabin fever. None of it seemed directed at her though, or at Frank, so far as she can tell. It wrings a sour pang of familiarity from her; keeps her replying to Madani's enquiries like she's trying to keep some kind of connection alive. 

She has an inkling Dinah thought this would be an easy way to keep an eye on whatever the hell Frank is doing now without _actually asking Frank_ , and now it's almost entertaining how she seemed to be assuming Karen would side with her on that. It's probably the only reason Karen finds a little amusement in replying, yet again:

_nope, still nothing. How's your head?_

_Same old same old minor depressive skull fracture, much less cerebral oedema tho, yay. CAn i have mY brain back now pls?_

Karen sends a smile emoji and sets the phone down; downs the finger of scotch she's been keeping for when the article was finished, and is a little grateful she didn't leave the rest of the bottle anywhere she could get at it easily right now.

**

She dreams, for some reason, about last Christmas Eve; about masks being torn away to reveal other masks; faces she can't quite recognise. She wakes up shaky and breathless; still lying there at 6am with a lump in her throat when she texts Madani:  _Can you get a message to him pls?_

Waits an hour for the response:  _not reliably-_ _he IS legally dead remember?? Also, he keeps switching phones. It's ALMOST like he doesn't want me keeping tabs.... haha_

Karen rolls her eyes. She hadn't had Madani pegged for the overenthusiastic capslock type so far, but then, she supposes head trauma will do that for you.

_Do me a favor? Ask Lieberman to pass on the message. I know you have his details._

She only gets _Yeah i keep asking him annoying questions too_  in response, but it's enough.

** 

it's another day before he calls. She's standing in the tinsel-draped grocery store after work on December 22nd, juggling packets of ground beef;  _unknown number_  shows up on her phone.

He says, "Karen?" and her breath catches just for a second at the concern in his voice. "You okay?"

She sets the groceries down, carefully, and lets out the breath she's been holding for ten seconds since he called; five weeks since he climbed out of that elevator; the best part of a year since she saw him on that rooftop. 

"Yeah," she says, "I just had a favor to ask."

She absolutely has a plan; and she's expecting the confused silence that follows; picks up the packet of beef again and sets it down in her basket. Listens to Donny Hathaway sing about how it's going to be A Very Special Christmas for a couple of seconds and tries not to think about why she's pushing this.  "You have somewhere to be for Christmas day, right?"

He sounds even more confused, which is kind of the point. "Uh, yeah?"

She thinks she hears a shaky breath down the line, somewhere beyond Donny singing. "Got talked into, uh, helping out at a shelter? Buddy of mine needed boots on the ground."

There's a faint, brassy reflection in the glass door of the chiller beside her; she watches a surprised smile flicker across her face. "That's.. really great." 

Another breath to steady her voice. "So you're free Christmas Eve, right? About six?"

 "What favor did you need, Karen?" He sounds so much more tired than she expected somehow, for a dead man with a whole new life.

She reaches for another packet of ground beef. "Christmas Eve. I'm making lasagna. You're coming to dinner. The favor is.. I get a couple of hours not worrying about you."

The store music has moved on to the Ronettes harmonising about sleigh rides, and there's a silence so heavy on the other end of the line it almost sets her ears ringing again. She thinks _jesus fuck this is a mistake_. 

"That's.. not a great idea." The words sound reluctant; ground out. She thinks,  _five fucking weeks Frank._

She tries not to think about whether he read the article. 

(Of course he read the article).

But then, she's held her nerve this long; survived a lot worse than a little radio silence. She fixes a smile and says, warm but absolutely-taking-no-shit: "You know what? I didn't phrase that right before, Frank. I'm not _asking a favor,_ I'm letting you know: dinner, my apartment, six pm Christmas Eve. You're gonna be there."

It's like a bad Christmas cracker joke:  _how do you get a Marine to do something? Make it sound like an order._

She glances up as someone reaches around her; three days before Christmas and she's standing in the way of every other frazzled holiday shopper trying to get at the chiller cabinet. Honestly, it's just asking for trouble. 

She hears, "Karen..." and swallows, hard.

"It's a couple hours, Frank. You get to sit in my apartment and eat really very good lasagna, and I... get to very briefly stop worrying about what you're doing and if you're okay."

She definitely hears him sigh again. "I'm okay. I don't.."

She's working _so hard_ to keep the brittleness out of her voice-- "That's great. I'll see you in a couple days, then. Okay?"

He almost audibly caves; he really should know better than to argue this kind of thing with her. "Okay."

She closes her eyes, just for a second; rests the basket on the side of the chiller and ignores the Christmas music and the angry woman tutting at her for being in the way of the turkey on special today. 

_Okay._


	2. Hey, Maybe I'll Lie Low

 

 

"I imagine you'd appreciate some answers?" Dinah Madani takes a sip of overpriced coffee and looks about as unsure as Karen has ever seen her look. She's also still wearing a very fetching black beret indoors, although the coffeehouse is packed with Christmas Eve shoppers, and verging on uncomfortably warm.

Karen blinks. Absolutely resists the urge to interrogate her, just like she's absolutely resisted the urge to go interrogate Lieberman, and every single other person she could connect to this clusterfuck.

She smiles, instead. Distinctly _tries_ to look less like she cares so much. "If you're... happy to fill in any of the gaps, then yes, please. I'd appreciate the background. But.."

Dinah looks up at her sharply. The shadows beneath her eyes are still a little too pronounced, and Karen feels a stab of... sympathy? empathy? She's usually better at this; uncovering answers about difficult things from reluctant sources and she does _want_ the information, no point denying it. She needs to process the worst parts of what happened before she sees him this evening. Those aren't answers she wants directly from Frank right now; that's pretty clear in her mind.

But whatever she thinks she can't handle hearing from Frank, she's also having trouble letting Dinah be the one to tell her. She's tangled up in this in ways Karen can't quite parse - there's the head injury, and the obvious implications of that --- but sitting here, she can't quite shake the feeling that it runs deeper; beyond the dissonance of trying to talk in person now, after weeks of messages she'd just treated as light-hearted badgering.  And she remembers every other conversation a different kind of interrogation before that. 

She thinks, maybe, retreat is a kinder option.

"If you'd rather just sit here, talk about absolutely _anything_ else... I'm good with that too. I just thought you sounded like maybe you could use a coffee."

"I'm not sure you really mean that."  There's something quiet and strained in Dinah's voice, and Karen shrugs slightly; feels that nagging discomfort settle in. She's a little bemused to find she actually _does_ mean it.

 "Pretty sure I can put most of it together myself, eventually - but... you didn't have to reach out in the first place to let me know things were okay. And you did that, so - thank you."

Dinah inclines her head, carefully; half-smiles. "I'm still not entirely sure if I did that for you, or me, or... our friend."

Karen says, just as carefully: "I know you did some extraordinary things, to fix this. I'm not entirely sure if it's my place to say thank you for that as well."

She watches Dinah Madani close her eyes for a moment; take a shaky, drawn-out breath. 

"You know, you never quite expect it to cost so much; doing the right thing? What you _think_ is the right thing. Like the goddamn universe should acknowledge that you're trying; that there's some sign you're making the right call?"

Another breath.  "And even with all that, I have to admit to making some.. unwise choices. I don't think it was a bad call, trying to fix things. It just... There was a cost. I made the choices; other people paid the cost."

There's a prickle of unexpected tears in Karen's throat she can't quite swallow down. Almost under her breath, "Yeah. I've been there." 

She's not entirely sure she even said it out loud; definitely not sure she was audible over the din of the coffeehouse. She looks at Dinah Madani's expression and wants to flinch. 

 And then Dinah sits up straighter, sets her coffee cup down. "You think it's the right call, your dinner tonight?"

Karen flexes her fingers under the table; trying to stretch the shake out of them. She thinks maybe she needs to stop using caffeine as a meal replacement quite so often, and tries for a wry smile.

"I think if he actually shows up, and I don't have to spend the next three days eating leftover lasagna, it was probably the right call."

It gets her a smile, either approving or amused at her misplaced optimism; she can't quite tell. 

Dinah picks up her coffee again, sips it thoughtfully. "Thank you, anyway, for suggesting this today. It's been... tricky. And I actually really did miss the coffee here." She shakes her head slightly. "If you get stuck with the lasagna and your plan doesn't go to plan... let me know, okay?"

Karen looks at her. "Oh, I dont have a plan. Just a really good recipe for lasagna." 

**

The wind picks up while she's heading home from the Upper East Side, and by the time she has the meat simmering on the stove, a full scale rainstorm is washing the last of the light away.

It's cosy, up here in her apartment, lamps lit, and the bookcases adorned with fairy lights she'd made a point of switching on for the first time in a week. And honestly, she doesn't usually see much point in cooking, with the hours she works and the fact she only has herself to cater for, but there's a pace to making this that's kind of soothing. Make the layers; arrange the layers; add several truckloads of good cheese and let the rest of it look after itself in the oven while she finishes the salad. 

She finds she could do with the soothing, after she heard everything Dinah Madani had to tell her in the end.

The radio's on; still tuned to a station that apparently has nothing but the sadder Christmas songs left to play this evening (she's honestly a little concerned about the DJ's state of mind), and she's half-listening; half stepping over to the counter every so often to add a few words to something on her laptop. The rain drums against the window now it's dark outside, driving Christmas Eve revellers off the streets, and nearly drowning out the decidedly odd words of the Dolly Parton song she's singing along to. 

If it were anyone else she were expecting for dinner, she'd be concerned about them going out in the howling, sodden darkness tonight, but the fact is, she doesn't for a second doubt that he'll show up.  He said he'd be there; no matter how much she cajoled his agreement; and he doesn't lie to her.

The microwave clock ticks over to 6.01pm; Dolly declares, yet again, that she's going to be just fine and dandy.

Frank knocks at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, tell the gods your plans to post the sodding second chapter a week later and apparently they laugh and then you get sick for several days, *then* get suckered into writing about a thousand more words of Karen talking to Dinah than planned, and Frank still hasn't quite shown up so chapter three is... going to be a thing.
> 
> Chapter title is from Hard Candy Christmas. It kind of had to be, really.


	3. I don't have the spirit as before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for tolerating me indulging my love of Hard Candy Christmas: the weirdest, oddly inspirational, Christmas song ever written. I still have no clue what a hard candy Christmas actually is but I figured Karen might appreciate the sentiment.
> 
> This chapter title is from Kitty Wells' Christmas Ain't Like Christmas Anymore

There's the briefest moment before she answers the door where she has to stop and just... breathe. Calibrate. Tamp down the thought of the damage she can do, if she doesn't keep her shit together for the length of time it takes to consume a goddamn portion of lasagna,

There's the thing: it's just dinner, not a tactical ambush. There's a limit to how much she can say, or push, or leverage. However much she might want to.

(And however much tactical ambushes are far more her style. She thinks Frank might appreciate that, if he wasn't the target on this particular occasion.)

She's out of time.

Dolly's crooning the last few lines, _oh I'll be just fine_ on a loop. She's gonna take that as a good sign.

Right as she opens the door, _Hard Candy Christmas_ ends.

And immediately starts up again.

She glances back behind her at the radio without even thinking, and--

"Everything okay?" His voice sounds rusty, hesitant.

 _Oh. Right. Now you get distracted._ She turns back, smiling at herself because _she is such an idiot_. Really trying not to let it turn into an outright idiot grin of relief at the sight of Frank standing there; familiar and not-familiar-- back to hiding behind the hair and the beard again, she thinks; although it's all slightly shorter than the last time he was at her door.

For a moment, she thinks she misses seeing the planes of his face; however much that version of Frank, shorn and ready to go to war, seems to be all tangled up with things being terribly wrong.

But she can see he's trying to smile right now; however much she may have dragged him out here tonight. He pushes the hood of his coat all the way back, still dripping rain everywhere, and looks at her, curious; a little reluctant, she's pretty sure, but _trying_.

"Hey." She fixes her tone light; wonders how much meaning she's honestly trying to fit into a single word; a single goddamned _syllable._ "Yeah - I'm just... mildly concerned the DJ on WCBS is having some kind of Christmas-music-related breakdown?"

To his credit, he barely blinks. "Is that a thing?"

She shrugs, "Eh, he's playing _Hard Candy Christmas_ twice in a row. Could be worse."

He nods slightly, "Dolly, huh."

And she smiles, a perfectly reasonable amount, and steps back; opens the door some more for him to come in.

**

" _I didn't understand," Dinah Madani had said, "What he was doing. Why he walked right up to the barrel of the gun and told me to do what I had to." She shifts, shrugging slightly. "I didn't know at the time why he was so... frantic."_

_Karen shakes her head once, sharply; trying to dislodge the fractured edge of a memory she doesn't let into the light often. She knows that moment; when you're so sick of looking at that gun, you stop letting it hold you hostage._

_She looks back up at Dinah. "And then Russo?"_

_She can feel the tension in Dinah when she says the name; that struggle to hold herself still and calm and precise. "Yes. And then Russo shot him in the fucking head."_

_**_

He didn't bring flowers this time. She's honestly kind of relieved; flowers carry _weight_ , after all, and what kind of flowers do you really bring at Christmas, except another goddamned poinsettia?

She says, lightly, "You don't call, you don't write - I _am_ gonna invite you to dinner. You should have seen that coming."

His coat is drying by the ancient, crackling radiator and she's pouring glasses of the pretty decent red he quietly handed her on the way in; the relative silence just reminding her how utterly fucking _talkative_ he can be when he feels like it. When he's trying to convince her of something; or trying to talk her out of it. He's quite capable of yapping just as much as she does - and Karen talks people into telling her various unwise things for a goddamn living.

He says-- low, wistful almost--"Yeah, I know."

He takes the glass with a nod of thanks, and it's so quiet in the kitchen with the radio down low now, just the hum of the stove and the drum of the rain against the windows, clouded up from the weather and the cooking. It's almost like she's holding a breath still.

Tonight, it looks like she gets the other, quieter, Frank - the one that surfaces, she thinks, when things are complicated, and he can't figure a way to talk his way around. It's not like the cold silence before Schoonover, she decides, but... more of a situational retreat. Going to ground while he works things through. Presenting less of a target.

She thinks he was like that in the hospital bed, way back when, more sullen bruise than skin -- all the way up until she had started talking, and he lit alive again. When she brandished that picture, and played all her cards on the idea that he might be able to shed some light on all the darkness she'd been scrabbling in. She's not sure she ever really thought about the cost back then.

She doesn't think about the elevator; when there were no words left, and her throat scraped raw with trying.

Her ears are ringing again, and _it is just a dinner, not an ambush._

It just means she has to hold her nerve a little more.

"Can I, uh, help?"

She glances up; realises he's leaning back against the counter an arm's length along from where she's still finishing up the salad. There's something wearily tense and so careful in how he holds himself, she thinks, almost like he's bracing against an old injury. And then she has to work to stop her breath catching in her throat at where that thought leads; has to curl her fingers tight around the edge of the counter to stop herself reaching out for reassurance he's really standing there.

Thinks: _Karen, keep your shit together._

So she takes a sip of wine instead, smiles at him. "Nope, all good. Promise it'll just be a couple of minutes, if you want to sit down?"

And he just shakes his head slightly; "I'm good." rasped so quiet she barely hears it; and she's absurdly relieved that he's staying where she can see him; where if she stretched out a hand, she could just about reach him; no nearer and no further. Wonders if he's standing there for the same reason.

She looks back down at the salad and wonders what the fuck she thinks she's doing.

**

_There's a gap in the narrative, then; after Dinah was hustled away, when all she has are police statements about him barrelling past three cops in the stairwell. They all mention the firehose, in an attempt to explain how exactly multiple highly trained law enforcement professionals couldn't stop one injured former Marine. Karen would admit to finding it a tiny bit hilarious if she didn't feel sick at the thought of the consequences; the motivation--_

_She thinks about how he looked when he stormed into the kitchen; blood soaked and staggering; one arm hanging almost useless and the gouge of that bullet on the side of his head; all the things she noticed with the odd hyperclarity of adrenaline--_

_(this is the way she remembers Wesley; all absurd details and time moving slowly, until it doesn't)_

_**_

She sets the lasagna down on the counter carefully; the aroma hitting her a little lightheaded after not eating all afternoon. It brings the faintest memory of of watching her grandmother moving, neat and precise, around a kitchen she hasn't set foot in for fifteen years. It makes her choose her words with just as much precision, and she tells herself it's the steam rising off the dish making her eyes prickle. 

"Just so you know, there wasn't a nefarious reason for... this, tonight. And I didn't mean to harangue you, I just..." She gestures at the dish on the counter between them.

"The last time I made this was my first day at Nelson Murdock. It was a thank you, for, uh... well. I guess it was for getting me out of jail, at that point."

 _He knows_ , she thinks. _He cannot possibly not know._

But he stays quiet, watching her, and she has an almost overwhelming urge to say Fisk's name out loud; feels it like a sour, poisonous thing on her tongue that will send the evening spiralling off in a whole other direction. 

She bites the inside of her lip; swallows it back down where it can't damage anyone but herself. Tries not to think about all the damage Fisk inflicted on her already; and that he still seems mercifully unaware of the extent of her retaliation. 

And, somehow, the thought that saying that name leads to other names; other things she doesn't want to talk about right now. It's not a weight she's sure the fragile agreement they have this evening can bear.

"So, anyway." She shrugs, carefully doesn't look at him. "It's a silly gesture, but it seemed... like something to do, at the time. To say thank you.”

(-- for that terrible long ago week of waking up with blood on her hands; of jail and interrogation rooms (and the hands around her throat, her nails gouging desperately at a dead man's eyes, and the dull resounding smack of her head into the drywall). She wants to think that Daniel was the first person that ever died because of a choice she made, but it would just be another lie she keeps telling herself.)

It occurs to her that she'd been relatively giddy when she set about making that lasagna in her tiny kitchen last time; suddenly being so relieved at being heard; at being believed; at having _people to make lasagna for_. Not a clue where it would all lead.

She realises how quiet the room is now; that her voice has trailed off, and he hasn't filled the silence. She's grown so used to having a voice, these days; to being listened to. She's really not sure why she's finding it so hard to talk now.

She takes another sip of wine, trying to clear the thickness in her throat. She feels like if she looks up at him, she might stop talking altogether. “And then I remembered it, the other day, when I was talking to Foggy, and...”

She does look up, then; meets his gaze, and it's as steady as her voice; as her heart. “I figured at the very least I owed you some lasagna."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow this got relatively long. And slightly less angsty? Um yup so basically it's nearly March and this was supposed to be a short two chapter Christmas fic that was finished by mid-January. There is _definitely_ a plan (if only the characters would get with the damn programme) and it's kind of nearly done, if only because I'm running out of slightly sad Christmas songs to incorporate...
> 
> But thank you so much to everyone who has been so lovely and supportive, it's made made finally posting fic for the first time much less scary than anticipated :-)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's still an eternal mystery why I decided an unfinished Christmas fic would be fun to post way back in January, but it's still rattling around in my brain, so here we go. This chapter was so nearly finished in time for, um, Christmas in July (if Dinah and Karen would ever stop talking. For some reason I can write them forever but Frank will just not talk, dammit)
> 
> but oh lordy what a freaking year this has been (mysterious illnesses and multiple broken teeth.. do not recommend)
> 
> ... Aaaand now I actually have enough time, energy and red wine to hack the rest of this into shape, they're dropping the new season of Daredevil already, and I'm ~freaking out~ about what that's going to mean for Karen in canon and the next season of Punisher and... *hyperventilates in the corner*  
> Enjoy!

"Is that right?"

He's looking at her sidelong; she thinks she knows that expression, the one that kicks in right before he calls bullshit? Like he's trying not to be amused by something absurd.

And she wants to let her smile falter, but really it's all that's holding her together right now. She swallows down the catch in her breath; half-shrugs. "It's just some lasagna. It's not that complicated, Frank."

He's turned to face her now; an almost involuntary action that looks borne of genuine agitation, arms still wrapped tight around his torso. An economy of movement that she recognizes; trying to spare some damage somewhere.

Still an arm's length away; that hasn't changed

"No, I, uh-- You didn't need to-- Karen, you don't _owe_ me anything."

 She's not going to start a list right now, of the things she may or may not owe Frank Castle; it certainly feels like it's been more a mutual trading of favors thus far, and some of those favors have involved her surviving things that really perhaps she shouldn't have.

And truth be told, he's certainly not the first person in her life to try that. It's more that he's the only one left standing, right now. The only one she's standing here with now, trying to dish up this goddamn lasagna.

She downs half the rest of her glass and looks at him. "You know, if you've got something against this lasagna, Frank, just tell me, and I will whip you up a shitty Christmas-themed omelet instead."

And he blinks, because there's that other thing she knows about Frank; the thing that most other people overlook. She knows - has almost always known, without even thinking about it - where he draws the line. And that he responds to a line being drawn - whether that be in vengeance, or just plain old fashioned _manners._ She knows that.

He'll rip someone's fucking throat out without blinking given enough justification, but oh lordy, she just reminded him he maybe wasn't being polite enough about this home cooked meal she'd badgered him into accepting and--

Really, honestly, it's too easy a button to push right now.

And she went right ahead and did it anyway.

She sees the realization flicker across his face - a moment of consternation; a little more of that agitation again - and she stands there waiting for that moment to break; until he takes a slow, drawn-out breath, and she can almost see it tracking through old bruises; still-fractured ribs.

A soft, clipped trace of pain; not quite an embarrassed smile, but: "No. Uh-- 'm sorry. It looks good, the lasagna."

She doesn't reach for the wine again; huffs something that's half-laugh; half-exasperation, trying not to smile, and says, "Then do you think you could pass me a damn plate, so I can dish up before it gets cold?"

 

**

 

_"What am I supposed to tell you?" Dinah Madani says, clutching her coffee cup so tight her fingers look bloodless. "He followed up the hotel by being a reckless idiot a couple more times over. Fucked up my hostage exchange and got beaten half to death in the process. More than half, with that punctured lung."_

_The only reason Karen doesn't flinch is that she was waiting for that part; knew there was something worse coming. Now that she has them, the details make it harder, and easier, all at the same time. She sets her tone steady, sympathetic and calm because honestly she doesn't think she could wind up Madani any tighter if she tried._

_But she understands, marrow deep, she will keep trying; that she doesn't have it in her now to stop._

_And there's that barest trace of careless cruelty again, the thing that unfurls sometimes when she starts digging and can't see anything but her quarry._

_"So it was... Rawlins? That time?" She's putting a picture together now, all obscure angles, sharp edges; bloodied hands._

_"Russo, Rawlins--You already know who the bad guys are here, Karen." There's a casual bitterness in her voice that Karen can't quite place; guilt or resentment or regret._

_She looks past Dinah, at the oblivious hustle of the crowd around them; missing the reassuring distance of her notebook with a fierce ache. Carefully: "Yeah. That, I know. What I mean is, if Rawlins was involved, personally... It wasn't just a beating, was it?"_

_Dinah rolls her eyes, sets the coffee cup down carelessly. "If you're trying to ask me if they tortured him-- yes, probably. They wanted information about deleting the data from Lieberman's set-up, as I understand it."_

_She sits back slightly, half-shrugs. "Although, if you're so set on defining it, most 'torture' involves beatings, so it's fairly pointless trying to draw a line. Fairly pointless using it at all to get information, when you look at the statistics. If they had any_ sense _at all, they would have put a bullet in his head first off. But there you go, they couldn't help themselves making it complicated."_

_Karen picks up her own coffee, more for something to do with her hands than any real desire to drink it. "That's.. one way of putting it, I guess."_

_Dinah looks at her for a moment, somewhere between pitying and confrontational, and lines up her next shot like she's stepping up at the range. "He gouged out Rawlins' eyes. You knew that part, right Karen?"_

_And Karen stifles a laugh, utterly mirthless as it is. She thinks she knew... a version of that. But the thing is, it really_ _doesn't matter._

 _(That faint memory of reaching, reaching,_ scrabbling, clawing _, panic all around and the pressure on her throat. She's not even sure if she remembers it happening now; the wet give of flesh under her nails, or how much damage she inflicted, exactly. Desperation. An accident. But she remembers, later, it must have saved her. That when he died, later, it was with the dressing still over one eye.)_

_She honestly doubts Frank was so amateurish about it._

_She feels a little pulled apart by the way Dinah is looking at her now; that familiar, reckless sensation of pushing a conversation too far. It prickles more than she expected and she's not even sure if it's some long-delayed sense of conscience finally kicking in. "So what he did to Rawlins, in the midst of that... situation - that's the part that gets to you?"_

_She watches Dinah regather; assess what she thinks will hit home most effectively. "And it doesn't get to you?"_

_There's the question. There's the thing she thinks about, some nights, turning over and over the memories she tries not to let out into the light. She has to acknowledge she spends every day now clutching at the latest horror; the latest violence, and it's no longer something she turns away from, because now it means a story she can flatten into neat print. For everything she already knew she was capable of when cornered, she's honestly not the same girl who flinched under a diner counter last year, covering her ears against the sound of it all._

_These days she's the girl advocating for concealed carry with a standing appointment for practice at the range; baiting terrorists live on air and to hell with the consequences._

_It's deeper in her bones now, and her ears are still ringing with it._

_She falls back on the obvious; wonders for a moment if they're back where they started, being baited in a Homeland interrogation room about a dead man. "I managed the_ _defense paperwork for his trial, Dinah._ _I've seen every photo, every police report, every goddamn coroner's report of every murder he was tried for, in color, over and over and over again."_

_"And?" There's a faint, abject challenge in Dinah's eyes when she looks up now; one that can't help but be met._

_"And, objectively, he's done much worse, to people who deserved it less."_

_The words are depth charges; sniper shots; precise and brutal and designed to do maximum damage from a cool distance._

_She watches Dinah flinch; understands that there's a grainy video of a point blank execution playing on a loop in her bruised head forever now, and it changes nothing at all._

_She thinks about the carousel, glittering with bloodied broken glass; swallows down the bile. Doesn't ask._

_"And I'm still here, talking to you about it."_

_She catches something darker; something wilder flash in Dinah's eyes. It reminds her uncomfortably of Frank; makes her think there are still missing pieces here, and she hasn't gotten anywhere near the truth, for all their mind games, and for all the shared truths beside that._

_And they're both still sitting here, talking about it; circling keen as wolves now and no closer to their quarry._

 


	5. Chapter 5

"So, uh, why today?"

He's looking at her expectantly, digging into the food with apparent enthusiasm, and honestly she's been counting it as a minor victory that the food is on the plates, the plates are on the table and they're actually sitting down to eat. The lasagna, for all her dire warnings, is predictably still approximately the same temperature as actual molten lava.

She glances at the forkful she's been waiting out to be cool enough to eat; tips it back on the plate and spears a piece of stray iceberg instead."What about today?"

He swallows down a mouthful before answering--

(of course, of _course,_ the food being scaldingly hot doesn't bother him. She wonders if maybe he's being overly polite now, and suffering for it; resists the urge to roll her eyes).

"Why... dinner on Christmas Eve?"

"Oh, I don't know." It comes out more flippant than she intends. She looks down; realizes she's been prodding restlessly at the shreds of lasagna with the fork until they're down to their component parts, noodles and sauce spread across the plate. "Maybe I'm just getting all my socializing out of the way for the holidays."

She sets her fork back on her plate carefully and doesn't look at him. "I actually had coffee with Dinah Madani this morning."

"You did, huh?" She looks up at the tone in his voice, a certain tension that wasn't there before, even if his voice is steady.

He hesitates for a moment then; she almost expected that. After all, they haven't spoken about Madani since he mentioned dragging her out of a burning car way back when, and she remembers it being... almost amusing, back then? _Well if that doesn't sum him up, going all white knight after being_ _kind of responsible for that same upside down burning car..._

And then things had gone absolutely to hell again, and it had stopped being amusing a while back now.

Something she can't quite place flickers across his face. "How'd that happen?"

Karen tries for a smile; she'd _try_ for nonchalant, if she didn't think she'd fall pretty far short. _We had coffee, and talked about you_ doesn't quite seem to cut it somehow. "You know Madani; I get the feeling she's... never met an investigation she knew how to let go of."

He forks another mouthful and chews it; frowning. She's genuinely distracted at the rate he's getting through the plate of food, wondering if he's tasting anything at all; or just keen for the meal to be done. "Wouldn't've thought she'd be up to doin' much more investigating just yet."

She looks up, more sharply than she intended; sets down the forkful of lasagna that she doesn't really want to eat right now. "It's not that-- She's still in rehab, Frank. She's just-- I think she wanted to make sure you were okay?"

_And she had to ask me. And then I had to tell her to ask Lieberman. Because you won't talk to her, either._

He's looking down at his plate; at the food, expression almost carefully blank. Doesn't say, _what did you tell her?_

She swallows reflexively; doesn't want to ask.

And she feels her heart rate amp at the thought of mentioning that damn article; the one that had snagged Dinah's attention back to her in the first place; but the words aren't there. She's never been a room with both of them at the same time, after all; all their individual interaction with Madani has been mutually exclusive thus far. And the only person doing any _investigating_ for a while now has been Karen, herself, mercilessly picking apart the carcass of events that she knows scarred the both of them deeply.

And while she made sure she got tangled up in this one _quite_ well enough... It didn't leave the same kind of marks. Her own scars are something else entirely.

He hovers the fork over the plate, takes a breath so deep it could be construed as a sigh, if you were so inclined. "How's she doing, now?"

She picks her words carefully. "Pretty well, considering. A little stir-crazy, maybe? The fracture's healing; she said there's... less swelling I think?" Like either of them have a clue what that actually means for a recovery; and she honestly thinks she's spent more time glossing the details of Frank's head injury than he ever had.

" But--" She stops, wanting better words; not finding them.

He's looking at her with an unspoken _go on,_ and she suddenly wishes she hadn't mentioned it at all.

 _"_ Someone hurt her... badly, didn't they? Made it personal, I mean. More than just the--" She gestures at her head; tries to shrug, but it's half-hearted. "I don't know. She's..."

 _Too focused. Restless. Dangerous, like any wounded creature can be._ Like she has been herself, often enough, she recognizes that part, like to like. And she knows Frank understands, far too well for comfort. Far too well to be chatting about it over dinner like it's still polite conversation.

For Karen, it's something she's buried under years of fresher damage, but still there: a wound so deep, in someone so disinclined to leave things be-- It never even gets a chance to scar; stays open and raw and unrelenting. And sometimes it reaches out, and twists you into something new.

 _But we had coffee, and talked about you_ really doesn't cut it.

Her voice sounds too quiet in her ears; worn through and husky. "You know what happened to her, Frank?"

He shifts in his seat; like he always does when there's something uncomfortable that he feels responsible for, something he can't get away from. She sees it; sees the movement catch that place in his ribs again, and the discomfort shift into actual physical pain--

"She, uh, lost her partner. Most of the Homeland team she was heading up, too, when they went in. Was never gonna sit right, somethin' like that."

Something else she sort of already knew, she thinks. She remembers the partner; never met him but remembers he existed, until he didn't. And with the single-minded intent Dinah Madani had for tracking down people who murdered her colleagues.. okay, it fits some of what is nagging at her.

Not all, though. Not by a long way.

And then there's the last person who murdered one of Dinah Madani's colleagues, sitting across the table from her now, with a clean slate from it all in the end-- although there are no clean slates, not really. Not where it matters.

She closes her eyes. "That really all of it, Frank?"

Silence for a moment; she looks up again.

"Bill--- Russo," he says suddenly. "How did he-- How'd he strike you as being?"

"Russo? I only met him that once." She sits up straighter; trying to parse the connection.

"Yeah? And you didn't have an opinion, after he made you leave your gun behind?"

She bites back a sour smile. Of course he knew she'd be fixing on anyone so intent on leaving her defenseless.

"Alright. Charming, not sincere. Too smart and too hungry not to be dangerous. And always... always wanting things that aren't his."

"Yeah." There's a tremor under the word she tries not to notice. "That's pretty much it. You know your bad guys, I guess."

She tilts her head slightly, watching him. "Professional interest. The thing I still can't figure, though--" She falters; falling back on that instinct to be aggressive about digging into something she's not been able to understand yet, but it's also _Frank_ and she already knows all too well how to land her punches so they hurt--

"'Bout that--," He's looking at her, steady; weighted down. The look on his face sends a familiar prickle of discomfort settling down her spine.

"What about it?" She absolutely understands the conversation's already tipping sideways; lets it fall right over the edge.

There's that tiredness in his voice again. "They were-- involved. Least, he said they were."

Karen stares at him for a second, swallowing down that nauseating sense of pieces fitting into a picture she doesn't want to see. "Oh." Then: " _Oh._ Shit. And-- Jesus, it was him that shot her as well? No wonder--"

She can feel her breathing begin to quicken; presses the back of her knuckles hard against her mouth for a second. "I shouldn't have pushed her with all that shit earlier-- _Christ."_

The colored lights draped around the bookcases blur for a moment; she thinks furiously of an evening last year under gaudy lights that somehow she's kept protected in her memory; something bright and vivid to hang onto even after it twisted into something else entirely. She remembers-- she remembers the betrayal she felt when she saw that mask last Christmas Eve, tries to imagine it multiplied by a hundred, a thousand times; tangled up in actual malevolence rather than a misguided attempt at protection.

She got off so lightly, in the end, from that part; just a pit of grief to contend with, a penance still to pay.

He's watching her, steady, leaning forward across the table. It's not that it doesn't hurt him, not at all that; she gets that. It's just silted down somewhere still beneath the surface right now, with all the rest of it.

There's the tentative press of a hand over hers on the table. "Karen. Karen, 's done now. It's finished, hey."

She looks at him. "It's not, though. It's not even nearly finished, is it.

He shrugs; she thinks that maybe the warmth of his hand is the only thing keeping her tethered to calm right now. "He's not wakin' up anytime soon."

She shakes her head slowly, "You don't know that. But you do realize she'll burn the goddamn world down to get at him when he does. And you--"

Closes her eyes, just for a moment.. "Why'd you leave him breathing, Frank? Why this one?"

So quiet she barely hears it: "Had to start somewhere"

She takes a long, shuddering breath; tries to gather herself back together. Feels the pad of his thumb move slightly; a fraction of an inch across the back of her hand.

He says, "You not hungry, Karen?" and she looks down at the wreckage of the meal left on her plate; realizes she's downed a whole glass of wine and barely eaten a damn thing.

The smell of cooking that had been so reassuring earlier is now turning her stomach. "Nope. Not really."

He nods slightly. "Okay then. Sounds like it's stopped rainin'. You want to go for a walk, get some coffee?"

It's sounds _exactly_ what she needs right now, that's the worst part. "Something wrong with the coffee in my kitchen?"  

He's made a sizable dent in the lasagna at least, even if all she's done is waste five dollars' worth of good ground beef.

"Nah, I just-- Best lasagna I had in a long time, too, but... Fresh air, diner coffee.. maybe some pie. C'mon." He stands up, holds out a hand to her.

She leans back slightly; looks at him. The air in here feels stuffy now; oddly hushed without the sound of rain. "Okay. Alright. I could go for pie."

He nods again, pulls that face that's half a smile. "Okay."

She shakes her head, still a little bemused; leaves the plates where they are and fetches a jacket; watches him pull on his still-damp coat from the radiator.

And they go out, into the night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is more... End of Part One.  
> And now I'm going to need to paint my nails that exact shade of grey that Karen does, and frantically watch season three before I work out exactly how Part Two is heading :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely appreciate this is not-all-that-near Christmas any more, but, um, I tried :-)

 It's December twenty-fourth, and she walks beside Frank in the fractured dark of a rain-washed street; close enough but never quite touching. She swallows down the part where she hasn't really touched him once this evening; not when he walked in the front door, or handed her a plate; somehow not to even take the hand he offered from where she watched him at the table. And she deliberately doesn't reach to take his arm now (with all the echoes _that_ brings); carefully does not lean into him as they walk. Tries not to notice the concern in the way he glances sidelong at her every so often as they trail quietly along 36th.

As it is, Karen walks beside him with her arms wrapped tight around herself; hunched over more than should be comfortable.  Hands tucked out of sight against her ribs because she still hasn't quite been able to stretch the shake out of them since that last conversation. Because she doesn't quite trust herself like this, fingers curled against the cold and nails digging frantic half-moons against the meat of her palms 

As it is, it might remind her that she's still in the world; still walking and talking and breathing, and that might be a little too much for her to deal with right now. That perhaps she wants it too much for ease; far too much for comfort.

Her teeth are chattering, and she's not sure it's entirely with the cold.

As it is, it's that cusp of Christmas Eve night, still hovering between the revelers and the frantic still-hurrying-home. She watches them stream past, the evening just tipping over that point where it becomes something _everyone else does_ \--  there's always that moment on Christmas Eve when it hits her that she's not _everyone else_ \-- when she can't keep distracting herself with working, or drinking; and it always hits her the same. 

It's occurring to her that she really hadn't wanted to be out here tonight after all; nerves raw against the noise and the lights. She _wanted_ to be back in her apartment, like she planned; working reasonably through all the reasons Frank Castle had been avoiding her -- only that had gone entirely as well as expected.

There's an echo of Dinah Madani in her head, asking _Is that the right call?_   

And... she has no fucking idea.  She has answers, because _she is Karen Page_ (something else she hears muttered in a tone somewhere between irritation and awe in the newsroom of the Bulletin most days) and there is no universe in which she does not get her answers. She goes further for them; takes more risks; more chances--

She has a sudden flash of these same streets this night a year ago; of stalking home from Matt's loft on a wave of indignation that carried her up to her apartment and straight to the long-suffering bottle of scotch. Oh she had her  _answers_ , and they solve nothing at all--

" _Shit_ \--"  She's a little too deep in her fit of pique stepping off a sidewalk; her footing a little precarious already when she stumbles, off-balance just long enough to start cursing.

There's a hand on her arm to steady her before she has a chance to even process it.

 And they've come to an ungainly halt standing sideways in the gutter between parked cars; still awash with rainwater.  Her hands still folded under her arms uselessly, and she's stupidly out of breath for something so minor; for the fact that he's facing her now, hands hovering an inch away from her arms like he's afraid she's still unsteady. 

"Hey. _Hey_? Okay?" She thinks he almost says it more to himself than for her, but she nods dumbly anyway, and still neither of them move.  It's like the clockwork that set in motion them leaving her apartment is running down again. She hears him again, over the traffic passing three feet away. "Sorry. 'M sorry."

"For _what_?" Her ears are ringing now. 

There's a sweep of headlights across his face again. He starts to shrug; eyes darting sideways like he can't quite keep focus. "I don't-- All of it. For all of it."

And it's so utterly absurd that it somehow kicks everything back into gear. She always did run better on indignation.

She feels her hands start to uncurl; takes a real breath for what feels like the first time since they left her apartment.

"Goddammit, Frank, that is _not_ how it works." Her teeth are chattering, and she pulls up short because he looks bewildered suddenly; more lost than she can fathom.  They never do quite break the same; it's not the same thousand-yard-stare every time, and she forgets that.

She says, gently "Please don't be sorry. Don't be."  

She wants to say _it's not worth it, over this; I'm the cause of too much of this for you to take it on as well._  But he looks down then, sharply, and she realizes her right hand-- aching, now, with the cold and the indentations her nails have left --is resting lightly against the front of his jacket.

There's no warmth in it really, she thinks; just the chill where the rain soaked into the fabric earlier. She half-smiles, crookedly; says, "I mean it: don't be sorry, Frank. Unless it's about the part where you left me in the dark the last few weeks, because... we're not doing that anymore, okay? We're not doing the thing where you disappear on me again."

She thinks maybe he hears something in her tone - she's not even sure what it is herself - because he looks back up and he's back together again; the fractured pieces consolidated for the moment.  He nods, once, decisively, and if it had been another place; another time, she's fairly sure it would be a _yes, ma'am_  kind of a moment - but they passed that point so long ago now that the words never quite fit right any more.  

She wonders whether there's room in that bashed-up brain of his for anything that doesn't _matter_ now; realizes with a lurch that she wants to be something that matters, somehow, in some way - for all that she thinks she might already.

There's a blare of horns as a cab swerves past too fast; she glances at the road as it's followed by the split shriek of a cop car speeding the other way. For a moment when she looks back at Frank, he's lit up in a blue-red flash that has her heart rabbiting again.  

She's moved to grip his arm without thinking, fingers digging in just above his elbow.  They've been standing in the gutter long enough she can feel ice-water starting to seep into her boots and she forces her breath to slow down; hopes her heart rate will follow. "Still don't have that coffee yet."

He glances around; careful, assessing; "Yeah, 's not far now." 

She feels his hand casually press over where she's clutching his arm; thawing out the frozen death-grip her fingers have, and it's both practical and edging into affectionate in a way that disconcerts her; in a way that she has no idea how to process right now.

She tugs her coat around her with her free hand; figures she has the next three blocks to make a start on working it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An actual thing I did for inspiration to try and get this fic finished in 2018: make my very patient (non-Daredevil-watching) friend spend an afternoon of our NY trip being dragged around Hell's Kitchen in the middle of a heatwave for that full DDS2 vibe... Aaaand it's still not finished. I know. I could not be more aware of this if it was emblazoned on a giant flashing neon sign at this point. I'm absolutely *heart eyes* that people are still reading after all that.
> 
> But, um, while this ship fandom is still my favourite thing in the world, and has propped me up more times than I can count, DDs3 then dropped and that season was very much not my cup of tea, which slowed me down a hell of a lot.   
> It's not for a lack of trying (lord knows I have wasted a lot of evenings glaring at my laptop screen), but it's All Been A Bit Much Really.
> 
> There's one or two more chapters left of my dear darling weird little Christmas fic, depending on how I split it, and they will be posted before TPs2 drops because I really don't want to think about what happens after that, or what scraps canon is going to leave us with.  
> And this time in two weeks I figure we'll have had have our last kastle scenes (okay nope I'm not okay)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more and an epilogue after this? At least, that's the plan...

The diner is not one she's spent a lot of time in since she moved nearer Midtown. She's not one for diners in general, as a rule; that prickling discomfort at being waited on by women who remind her of her mother; by girls who remind her of who she could have been. Surly line cooks and chipper bus boys can make her actively panicky.

And this one, all chrome stools and train car lines, makes Karen stifle a laugh when Frank holds the door open.

It's not that the few lines of cheap, muted Christmas lights strung across the ceiling remind her of Panna so much (Panna is very much _an experience_ as much as it is a pure Indian food + wine equation, and sometimes she reads the outraged Yelp reviews just for entertainment) but it's all just... So many things. So many things that remind her of things she's not keen to dwell in, and all while her nerves are strung out already on the rest of this evening.

She makes it as far as the counter before the sound of a chair scraping back across the floor makes her flinch, noticeably, and Frank is giving her that assessing look again; the same one as when he suggested they go get the damn coffee in the first place.

She runs a hand along the metal edge of the counter; looks back up at him. "What?"

There's another moment, like he's deciding something. "You good if we get this to go?"

" _To go_ , like, take the coffee home? Where I could have just _made_ coffee?" There's no question that he means _take the coffee and walk six blocks back to her apartment;_ no doubt in her mind that this is just how the evening is going now, and it's with him.

"Yeah," he says, stepping closer, and she wonders _why the diner now; why the diner last time, even?_ "Yeah, well, looked like you needed some fresh air. And... 's'good coffee, here."

She realizes he's moved to stand between her and the rest of the diner; really isn't sure how she feels about that. "Fresh air, huh? In this city? Sure you didn't just to need to walk off all that cheese and white sauce?"

He's really trying not to smile now. Somewhere behind him, she sees the waitress is hovering to see what the hell they're doing dawdling by the side of the counter; not sitting down or ordering. "Make it sound like like I get a lot of chances to eat a decent home-cooked meal. Wasn't gonna let it go to waste."

She huffs a laugh. "I promise you, it wouldn't've gone to waste - those leftovers were gonna be a great excuse for me not to order takeout for the next three days.".

There's also a whole takeout schedule planned for holing up in her apartment the next three days, and she didn't want to even look at that lasagna again any time soon, but there's no in way in hell Frank has to know that. Something shifts in his face though; half a smile, and the rest of an expression she can't quite parse.

He turns to smile full-on at the waitress, still standing there with menus on a shitty Christmas Eve shift, and gestures at the counter. " We're just gonna get some to go. Sorry to keep you, ma'am."

And Karen's pretty good, now, at covering up the part where his using that word makes her quite suddenly, gently, sad.

"And pie, yeah?"

Karen looks at him; standing by the order point now, counting out cash; apparently the coffee and dessert are on Frank this evening. Scrubs tiredly at her face with one hand and nods. "Well, I do distinctly remember being promised pie. They got any blueberry left?"

"Blueberry, apple - we're good." He tucks a few notes in the tip jar while they're boxing up, wishes them a merry Christmas, and turns back to her, balancing everything. She can't help but smile at the absurdity of it, at the sight of Frank Castle, loaded up with decent coffee and take-out pie, waiting to walk home with her.

She kind of wants to let Dinah Madani know, _everything's okay, it will all be okay;_ except for the part where they would both know it wasn't really true.

Frank hands her one of the coffees; still somehow manages to hold the door open for her while carrying the pie. She says, "I hope you realize I'm spiking this famously good coffee with scotch as soon we get back."

He nods gravely, considering. "Sounds like a plan."

And they're back out again into the night.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, the diner in this one is kind of mix of places (Murray Hill for the xmas lights and the location) but for some reason I've only just looked up the Indian restaurant (Panna II) from season two after all this time and yep, the reviews are indeed kind of a wild ride... also they're apparently BYO, as Karen was so concerned about the damn wine :-)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's... done?? kind of?? Minus the epilogue. This chapter made me cry, a lot. Enjoy :-)

"I meant what I said before, about not disappearing." She looks at the scotch she's pouring into the remains of her coffee rather than at him; doesn't quite want to see his reaction. She sets the bottle down carefully behind her on the table next to the couch; makes sure it's easily in reach and doesn't bother putting the cap back on because honestly, it's going to be one of those nights.

"I know." He takes a drink of as-yet-unspiked coffee, and nods at her cup, which may or may not be mostly scotch at this point. "You might wanna start on the pie first."

She settles back to face him, curled sideways against the arm of the couch; gives him a look and picks up her plate. " _Okay_ , pie. Happy now?" She gestures at him with the fork. "I mean, I'm _definitely_ still washing it down with scotch. Quit changing the subject."

He looks at her sidelong, shaking his head at her like he's trying not to smile. "'m not changin' the subject. Just not sure what the plan is... next month; next year." He shrugs, not quite as comfortable now. "Eat the damn pie, it's good."

It _is_ good - she's about two bites in already without him even noticing - but hell if she's about to concede the point just yet. She drains the last of the coffee-flavored scotch in one go; feels her heart amp up because it's like she's chasing something down now. And she's not, and she is, and the alcohol is making it harder and easier all at the same time.

And she knows she can't ask him to stay, not in any of the ways that might mean. She's too hard on things that break, and there just aren't words for it right now.

"I'm not talking about sticking around. I don't-- I just mean... keep in touch. Check in, every so often. Because, Frank - _I mean it._ I do not do well with this radio silence shit these days. And I don't want to have to hear from other people that you're not dead."

She half-expects him to flinch; wonders how much time she's honestly spent believing that he was really gone. That was the thing about Frank, he used to be horribly easy to keep track of when he wasn't actively trying to disappear.

He gives her an almost-reproving look, like _why are you trying to ruin a perfectly good evening with this shit,_ but he doesn't actually _say_ it, and that's something else entirely. "'s always been complicated. You know that, Karen."

There's a moment there when she seriously considers throwing a fork at him, but honestly, it's ridiculously close-range, and the blueberry stains would be hell to get out of the couch.

_"_ Oh Jesus fucking _Christ,_ Frank - you wanna be any more patronizing about it? Cause that's the thing, isn't it: when you don't know the score, you end up with nothing but telling yourself stories in the dark." She gestures helplessly with the fork. "And you know me, sometimes the stories can get _really_ _shit scary_."

She stops, all of a sudden; surprised at herself. Blinks, and swallows hard, and reaches blindly behind her for the bottle, because that empty coffee cup is looking at her pretty expectantly right now.

And Frank isn't looking at her at all; just tips his head back for a second in a very _give me strength_ kind of way that she's just about ready to take offence at

She watches him take a long breath; then he downs the rest of his coffee and holds the cup out. "Jesus Christ, Karen, seriously? Gonna need somethin' stronger if we're doin' this now."

She takes a shaky breath; tips scotch into both cups with a reasonable amount of precision, considering. "Not really doing _anything_ , though, are we. Except, weirdly, still drinking out of paper cups when there are perfectly good glasses in the cupboard."

He take a sip and looks at her. "I'm good. You gettin' up?"

She shakes her head; twists to set the bottle back on the table. "Nope. At least they're not plastic, so I guess we'll just see how long they last."

"That some kind of a challenge?" He says it lazily, almost, but it's also deliberate; his tone too measured to settle her nerves entirely.

She tilts the liquid around the cup; breathes in the fumes and leans sideways into the back of the couch like it's soaking down into her bones again now. "Fuck, no. Really not enough left in the bottle to be a challenge. I give it twenty minutes, max."

"Fair enough." He holds the cup up in a vague toast, and she smiles; closes her eyes.

"It's really not fair, y'know - I'm pretty easy to check up on. All you have to do is pick up a paper every now and then. Living proof, in print."

"Yeah. I know." And there's something in his tone that cuts through the whisky-haze for a second; makes her open her eyes and allow a spike of panic through. She's drunk just enough that all her warning signs are out of whack; just enough she forgot about the article and now she knows, _she knows he saw it._

And she's not even remotely sober enough now to talk about it reasonably; because she's still not even sure now what she was thinking when she wrote it. All she knew, that other night she'd been inhaling most of a bottle of Macallan, and running off the kind of fury that she had to do something with. Because, the carousel. Because, she's lost count of the number of times people have tried to kill her now - no matter the things she's done to provoke it - and yet there's someone like Maria, just _gone_ in the most horrific way, taking the hit for other people's mistakes, and she was so utterly fucking _furious_ about it--

And the article-- maybe the article had been a giddy, sickening flourish to it all; a coda she couldn't help but supply.

She swallows down the panic; tilts her head to look at him, and he's watching her from the same angle along the couch, and she knows all too well what it looks like when he's just about holding it together. Her voice feels like it's had all the strength burned out of it. "You saw that, huh."

He blinks; and it's like he has to think about it for a moment. "It was, uh-- it was nice, what you said about them. Respectful."

The words make her eyes prickle, and she's getting a little tired of tears this evening. "I, um... I don't know that I deserve that much credit. I was just sick of it; all the not-talking-about-it. All the talking about it the wrong way. It wasn't fair on them."

All the possible ways in which _none of this was remotely fucking fair_ ; she's trusting he knows how she intended it.

And he's nodding, slightly, but it's got that dazed edge to it that makes her want to stop talking. And if she stops now-- she _can't_ stop, now, because they're sitting in her apartment surrounded by her whole life, and there's this hollow, hollow space where everything from _before_ used to be. She looks over at the remnants of this latest attempt at her grandmother's lasagna; and there's nothing virtuous there; nobody else left to remember.

She swallows down a mouthful of scotch; short and sharp, and looks back at him. "Frank. I'm going to say something, and I, um," She swallows again, past the lump in her throat-- "I don't think you'll want to hear it, but I need to have said it."

He doesn't say anything, but he's still watching her; eyes like a bruise waiting to happen. But still waiting, and that's something.

She tries to take a deep breath.

"I don't think I ever tell you half the things I did - that I _do_ \- when I'm digging for something. The number of people I talk to; the number of people that will talk to me. The amount of useless shit you have to sift through, trying to find the thing you're looking for. And I... always go looking, you know that. I went looking for you before I even knew who you were. I had to." She shrugs; careful to keep the glass upright.

"And you were right, you know. I even went looking for, uh, Lewis' father, a few weeks back?" And she's not even sure of the way she remembers that pale, miserable boy now; another one who tried to talk to her; got disappointed with what he found, and tried to snuff her out.

"He's in the wind, of course-- house is boarded up; some weird shit under tarpaulin in the backyard, and-- that's it, you know? He lived there twenty-seven years; his whole life there with his wife and his kid, and then he loses them both, and he can't even keep the house. The neighbors-- they had a few choice things to say about Lewis, of course, but-- barely a bad word about his father. Couldn't stay, though; he just has to hope he disappeared well enough, and that nobody sells him out to the tabloids, wherever he is now."

His breathing is a little too fast. He's frowning - of course he's frowning - but that makes her oddly calm, now. All that rage, and in all this time she never once worried it would be directed at her; not really. It's heady, and unnerving, and not altogether wise.

"I, um-- And I don't know if I ever told you? I don't--" Her voice falters, and she burns it back with another sip. "I don't think I did. I lost, um-- My mom, and my grandmother, they passed the year I graduated high school, and then--" She can't say the words, because they're not just words; they were the end of the world, for her, once.

But it's not like she ever had a choice in the matter. "My brother-- he died the next year, and it was, um-- it was too much, you know? He was _young_ , and--" Her face is hot; the kind of tears you can talk through, easily enough; that spill out like water boiling over. No racking sobs, just a question of physics, and consequences. She talks about Kevin: this happens.

"And I still think about, if went back, to my dad's house - cause my dad, he never threw anything out; he wouldn't know how--" Except _,_ she thinks suddenly, realizing there was quite likely no trace of herself left there, by now. "If I went back, I know I'd still find his room there, and it would be just the same as it was when he left the last time. And it wouldn't for a second capture who he was and what losing him did to us, but... I know it would still be there, and I'm glad it is. Because sitting there, where he used to be, with all his stuff? I wish I could. I think it's the closest you come to being near them again. With the _real_ them, I mean, not the version on your head."

It's almost better, she thinks, saying it like this. Digging hard at a soft spot until he barely hears what she's saying; all wrapped up in his own head. It's not the whole truth; and it's not like she could stomach his pity, for what happened; she just needs him to know that she knows, after all that. That she's been living with this far longer; and her grief has shaped her differently.

"Frank." she says, and he looks back up at her with that same trace of abject wildness that spooked her so much in Dinah, earlier. She expects it in Frank, though; it makes him make more sense.

"I don't know what the version in your head is like. I don't know if it's like mine; if it becomes something you can't hold onto sometimes? But all those things you told me about them-- All the life they lived when you were to see it? I just want you to remember that there was more to it. That they had these whole other lives, and sometimes I think--"

A breath, her heart rabbiting like she's run a mile; a twist in her gut with this particular sharp knife and she thinks _God she hates to hurt him like this._

But she does it anyway, despite everything. Because she doesn't know if she'll ever have the strength to do it again.

"I-- I think it gets lost, in everything that happened after. I think nobody else that knew them gets to talk about them anymore, now, because what happened after informs how the world sees them, and notoriety is... well, it's not always concerned with what's _true_ \--" Her voice breaks somewhere in the middle of the word. She takes a breath; tries again.

"And I went looking for them before I ever knew you, because I needed to understand, and I don't think I ever stopped looking? And I'm telling you now because it feels like you maybe need to start trying to remember them right? Whatever that means. All the stories that happened when you weren't there; all the other things that made them... them? Because you're all they have, to do that."

She swipes at her face with one hand; the tears of before shifting down into a sob she can't quite bite back now. Watching grief twist his expression; he's staying quiet but still looking at her - _how is he still looking at her, after all that -_ and she realizes with a lurch that this is that wretched elevator again, six weeks ago and now. Tears in both their eyes, now. Something she's responsible for. An aftermath.

She breathes, " _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have--"_

Reaches out a hand, instinctively, like she's been stopping herself from doing all evening; like she did in the elevator, because she needs to know he's still there and he's real and he's safe.

And he's sitting just too far away to reach, and right now she's half-expecting him to get up and walk out; for her hand to reach out and find nothing but an empty space there, because she couldn't help but dig at it.

She reaches out, and takes a sharp, sobbing breath when he does the same; when there's a warm, solid grip on her hand, and he seems to be clinging on for dear life just as much as she is.

And everything else is exactly as it was before -- no nearer and no further away on the couch. Still clutching scotch in paper coffee cups in one hand; but the other stretched across the space between them; fingers tangled up together.

Karen lets her head rest back against the couch; curls up some more and closes her eyes, and doesn't let herself worry about him letting go. She thinks she might be all out of anything left to say right now.

 

* * *

 

He does let go, eventually, later-- having rescued her coffee cup from nearly spilling scotch everywhere while she dozed; having dozed for a while himself. It's nearly midnight when he checks his watch, and there's no real reason to move just yet. It's a comfortable couch, in a comfortable apartment; he's warm and still drowsy, and Karen makes a sound like a discontented cat when he tries to move his hand away, so he doesn't let go then, not straight away.

Instead, he sits and looks around the apartment in the lamplight; tries to work out what things are at this distance, and in this light. Tries to make out the titles of books on the shelves; the people in the few photos she has on display. He saw them before, but he's not sure he took it all in back then; because she's always a distraction; always the thing in the room that takes up his attention, and that part hasn't made him sorry yet.

 

He makes sure to look at it now, while she's curled up on the couch next to him, fingers tangled up with his. While she's sleeping off the scotch, and everything else it made her decide to tell him-- he looks, and he tries to make sure to remember.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me writing this chapter, at several points: EASe oFF, KaReN??   
> Which is why that's the toned down version of the original conversation about how nobody ever points out to Frank that he's doing the memory of his family as real people absolutely no favours, and it bugs me, a lot. As it is, you never quite know what's going to happen when everyone gets drunk and emotional and starts talking in a fic, and now 'scotch' doesn't even look like a real word to me anymore at this point...
> 
> Thank you, as always, to everyone who has said some absolutely lovely things about this fic, especially this week - it made me cry writing it, and it made me kind of cry reading them. I need to go finish the slightly less traumatic epilogue (and about three kastle one-shots, only one of which actually has Frank in it, because I would love to post them before season two arrives).


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After, with eggs.

It's sometime around two when Karen blinks awake on the couch; because it's cold, and quiet, and her blood sugar has just dropped off a cliff after an evening of alcohol and refined sugar.

The paper cup has gone, there's a glass of water on the table behind her instead, and her hand is empty again and it still-- it _aches_ , literally, from trying to hold on too tight.

It occurs to her that two Christmas Eves in a row spent getting wasted on scotch and crying about other people's life choices might be not be the most sensible thing she's ever done. Possibly. Perhaps.

But she flexes her hands, gently, until the stiffness eases; watches the lines of Frank's face in the dim light as he sleeps at the other end of the couch. Thinks it might be worth it, this time.

He doesn't stir as she stands up, a little unsteadily still. She snags the glass of water carefully on the way to get ready for bed - because she's damned if she's sleeping on the couch in her own apartment this year - but he's still asleep when she looks back.

She gulps the water and drags on her pajamas - carefully, _quietly_ , still enough scotch in her veins to be unsteady and exaggerated and everything ever so slightly out of sync. Brushes her teeth clean from the whisky and the lingering taste of blueberries. Drinks some more water, and two aspirin, and pads back to stand in front of the couch with the afghan she keeps at the end of her bed.

She murmurs, "Hey, Frank?" and he blinks up at then her for a moment, eyes half-open and not really seeing; closing again as she arranges the blanket over him. Tries to nudge him sideways slightly so he's not sleeping sitting up, folded in on himself, but it's a losing battle, and she figures he'll work it out for himself soon enough.

 

Says, quietly, on her way back to bed. "Still better not disappear on me again, Frank."

 

Just in case he hears it; in case he decides to listen. Just this once.

 

* * *

 

There's coffee next to her bed and the radio playing when she wakes up, and it's all oddly out of place. It's 8am according to her phone, and that's the thing nobody ever tells you about living on your own - there's a distinct lack of coffee in bed unless you want to get up and make it yourself. And that's been her life for so long now that she lays there, bemused, and looks at it for a while.

It's kind of lukewarm by the time she drags herself out of bed, finds a stupidly oversize sweater because it's still cold as all hell this early, and the boiler always struggles first thing. She pauses in the doorway, sipping coffee and watching Frank Castle, for some inexplicable reason, rummaging in the fridge. She's pretty sure there's basically nothing to find in there except leftover lasagna fixings, even if he doesn't seem to have realized it yet.

There's no trace of the dishes from last night that had still been sitting out when she went to bed last night and she kind of wonders how the hell she slept through all of that.

She takes another sip of coffee and waits for him to turn around.

"Hey, Frank."

He's standing there, holding the box of eggs that she'd entirely forgotten about, and he looks... okay. He looks okay. "Hey. Want some breakfast?"

There's the faintest edge of stress in his voice, but Karen thinks she's heard a lot, lot worse. She pads over slowly, bare feet cold on the floor, and nods at the eggs. "Well, if you found anything more substantial than coffee around here, you're doing better than I usually manage for breakfast." She shrugs carefully; smiles. "I mean, thank you for the coffee - there's pretty much no food in the place, and absolutely no presents, so... Merry fuckin' Christmas I guess?"

He looks down at the box in his hand; half a smile at that, like he's surprised at himself; at her; at _them_. "That a yes, then?"

"Yeah," She drinks the last of the coffee, rinses the mug under the tap. "That's a yes, please, breakfast sounds good. You may have to be creative with those eggs though. I quit actual grown-up grocery shopping a while back."

He's picking through the cabinets when she looks up; the remnants of the salad she didn't use up yesterday from the fridge out on the counter. She says, suddenly, remembering, "Didn't you have plans today?"

He says, "Uh-huh. Here we go." There's a can of tomatoes on the counter now, and she feels her phone buzz in the pocket of her pajama pants. "Have to get there for, uh, ten, or so. Over in Queens." He carefully doesn't look at her, arranges the ingredients neatly together. "You wanna help out?"

Karen frowns, reaches for her phone. "With breakfast? Or the, um, doing good deeds today thing?"

"Either. Both? You got a garlic press?" He's really suddenly very busy chopping up peppers now and can't possibly meet her eyes.

She looks around the apartment; wonders if she's feeling brave enough to be out there now, being part of _everyone else_ for once. She catches the edge of something melancholy and festive on the radio about _not making it home for another year_ and she's getting better, there are no tears this time.

The message on her phone says _Hey KP, how did the lasagna go in the end?_ And really nothing has changed, and everything has.

She takes a deep breath. "Alright. Okay, to both. Does it _look_ like I own a garlic press?"

He looks up to see her taking a picture of the tomatoes with her phone, and frowns. "How about a can opener?"

Karen types underneath, _Apparently falling asleep in a carb coma on the couch last night means shakshuka for breakfast this morning? And no, before you ask, that is absolutely not a euphemism for anything. Enjoy your day x_

She hums along to the radio; digs around in the back of a drawer for the can opener. Her phone flashes up with _I'm honestly speechless?? Coffee, soon x_

And Karen is watching Frank Castle and trying not to cry, chopping onions for breakfast now, in her kitchen. She thinks she might be speechless too.

 

And for the moment it's something; it's enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...As much as I enjoy the sad, I enjoy a good cathartic breakfast epilogue even more?
> 
> Bonus points for the Kasey Musgroves title song lyric cameo I decided to shoehorn in there somewhere because it reminded me of Karen...
> 
> (and in my head they then enjoy a nice rewarding-yet-emotional day helping with Christmas dinner at the shelter and Karen meets Curtis and it's basically like that really emotional Christmas bit in the movie Brooklyn, up to and including the melancholy singing? But hey, let's see what actual fuckery the new series comes up with...)

**Author's Note:**

> (Ahahaha I've never written anything remotely coherent enough to post before, this is kinda beyond nerve wracking. Please don't ask how I wrote 2.5k words of a Christmas Eve fic and still don't even make it to Christmas Eve in the first chapter.)
> 
> Chapter title is from that Donny Hathaway song :-)
> 
>  
> 
> I'm on tumblr at it-may-be-dull-but-im-determined


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